Leaving San Francisco

We woke up early and headed by train (or rather: by BART) with our bags to the car rental place adjacent to the airport. The people at the counter were very taken with the fact that we actually spoke English, and proceeded to talk to us about car driving exams, German food... all sorts of stuff. We knocked out three working stations worth of car rental people. Eventually they processed us and pointed us to the parking lot, where we were told to pick out our car. I managed to force a Dodge Avenger over Gosia's Corolla, and we're very happy with it so far. It actually looks like a proper car, and it seemed more fitting to go with something thoroughly American.

At first Gosia was a very nervous driver and kept up a constant monologue about the situation on the road, actually talking to almost every passing car. It wasn't exactly non-annoying. I would try to figure out a better way to say that, but I'm kind of in a hurry.

Inner California is very pretty - green rolling hills with vast expanses of pink flowers, on account of the peach orchards (at least I'm guessing they were peaches). After you pass those you get into uneventful desert land. Uneventful desert land is uneventful, except for the car shadows strobing across the grass, which at 75 mph look kind of jittery, as if you set your graphics settings too high.

We drove hungry, because it was a long drive and we figured we'd just hit a buffet once we reach Vegas, but we got there several hours after sundown, and by the time we left our hotel room most restaurants were closed. That took me by surprise, because I didn't think Vegas EVER closed, but there you go.

I should probably mention that we stayed at the Luxor, which I call the Pyramid of Power (though our room was actually in a tower adjacent to the pyramid). The hotel was vast and had a sickly sweet vanilla scent. The room - clean and comfortable. We dressed in our weary finest and headed out.

Las Vegas itself... well, you can't really describe it. It's just as tacky as you'd expect from seeing all the movies, etc. We went up and down the entire Strip, and wandered into several hotels/casinos (though I only remember the Bellagio and Ceasar's Palace). There's an absolutely insane musical fountain show in front of the Bellagio that goes on for several blocks. There's a weirdly stocky Statue of Liberty. There's madness all around.

We eventually found a restaurant that was open around the clock and went in to celebrate having made it through our first day of driving. I wanted to have a lobster burger, but they no longer served those, so I settled for crab. Gosia got a disapointing shrimp cocktail. It wasn't cheap, and on top of that I miscalculated and overtipped, but hey - Vegas, right? We got slightly tipsy and they played Pink's "Glitter in the Air" from the speakers, so I settled into contentment.

I was ready to head to the hotel and run myself a bubble bath - the thing I was most looking forward to on this stop of our tour, actually - but I promised Gosia we'd gamble for a moment, so we found some slot machines. Gosia lost two dollars and we decided to call it a night. As we were walking out, I figured what the hell, popped 25 cents into one of the machines and pulled the lever. Some symbols locked in place, and the meter started counting my win. Around a minute later it stopped at 120 dollars. We cashed the ticket in at the machine, I gave Gosia 20 bucks to reimburse her for the disappointing shrimp, and we got the hell out of there.

At the hotel I ran myself a bubble bath, but it was so late, and I was so exhausted, that I only clocked in around 30 minutes of soaking.

The bed was soft. There was a "Do Not Disturb - Getting Our Lux On" card on the door. The whole day seemed - and still seems - like a blur.

Day Four: Mission and Castro

By day four my feet still hurt, so for the first time, we made use of public transport and took the bus to Mission. Unfortunately, I don't remember too much from the district on account of the pain. We did begin the day with a breakfast at some super hip place Gosia found online (we actually had to wait for a table, and stuff). The hip element was provided by a pair of young people who played cards over their meal. The surprise element was provided by tofu. Gosia ordered some complicated pile of food that starred said ingredient, and I had something containing chorizo and hash browns and generally everything fat and delicious. To my shock and horror Gosia's plate tasted better. I'm not exactly mending my wicked ways yet, but it made me reconsider tofu. For a short while.

Mission is mostly Spanish. That's all I can say about it. And Castro is mostly gay. Major bombshells, I know. It's not that big though, which was a bit surprising to me, given its fame. Rainbow flags everywhere, names with puns, but it was just several streets. Then again, I don't know what I expected.

All this time, we kept walking into every bookstore (second-hand or otherwise) we came across, because I was looking for a particular book - the second part of a SF trilogy. I bought the first part for 1 pound in Birmingham on a semi-whim, devoured it in record time, and have been looking for the next installments ever since. I finally found the book in a seemingly SF-oriented bookstore called Borderlands and learned that it had actually gone out of print in the US. And I paid 17 bucks for it. Go whims.

After Castro, I realized that there was simply no way I could take any more walking, so I bid Gosia good luck and went home by subway. Going home by subway unfortunately entailed climbing 70 more hills. I literally contemplated just sitting down in the middle of the street at some point. I was beyond caring.

But I did manage to get back to the hotel, and after my feet rested, I was even able to go out for a Thai dinner with Gosia. The food was good, though often unrecognizable (the running phrase became "Again, I don't know what I'm eating"). Then another nightcap at another bar - once again manned by a very friendly 30+ woman - and off we went to sleep.

Day 3: Haight-Ashbury, Golden Gate Park

A little note on scheduling: thanks to jetlag management, we get up at around 8 a.m. (and are sort of awake from 6 a.m. onwards), and we go to sleep around 9 p.m. It feels a bit weird, but we cram so much into these waking hours that I can't stay up any later even if I wanted to.

Day 3 was the day my feet broke. I already started feeling some weird pain in the outer arch of my left foot towards the end of Day 2, so I decided to try to take out my orthopedic insoles for a day and see how that would work out.

It did not work out. At all. We don't use any form of public transport, and have seen almost the entire city by now. That's a lot of walking. And so my recollections of Day 3 are a bit of a blur - I mostly just remember the pain and the frustration about it happening when I really needed my fucking feet to work.

Anyway, we started with Haight-Ashbery, which looks pretty much like a hip Berlin neighbourhood, except with more hippies. At one point a possibly homeless guy who was washing bookstore windows struck up a conversation with me. I didn't understand half of what he said, but it all sounded very poetic, so I alternated between Bemused and Appreciative, until I finally realized that he was basically lamenting the stupidity of "my generation". He ended his monologue by expressing his hope that "China would take over all these businesses."

We ate a late breakfast in a big, dilapidated diner that smelled of mildew and gave off a very peculiar vibe. Neighborhood diner meets Turkish bath/opium den. It was really quite spacious, with tiles on the floor and painted walls. Everyone seemed to know each other. Both the waitresses were in jeans and looked like they should have had dreadlocks (none of them did). One flirted with a young all-American guy who seemed to be writing code on his laptop. Two tables down two middle-aged tattooed lesbians were chatting away over breakfast. The place had everything.

Quick note on cafe/diner/restaurant demographics: all the places we've been to had a full cross-section. People with little kids next to hipsters next to middle-aged couples next to white-haired ladies. I have to say it's awesome.

The breakfast was insane. Gosia ordered a breakfast burrito - and I can honestly say that I'm 100% behind that particular idea. I had eggs benedict with hash browns and... God, I don't even remember anymore. So much food.

We left Haigh-Ashbury and went straight into the Golden Gate Park, which is really a neighborhood in its own right. There's an Academy of Sciences, a Botanical Garden, some museum, an island, a small marina, a Japanese garden, an AIDS memorial grove - it's enormous. Me, I mostly remember how much my feet hurt walking around it.

After the park the plan was for Gosia to get a bike in Richmond (the area between the Golden Gate Park and the actual Golden Gate Bridge) and ride across the bridge and back, while I busied myself with the Internet at some cafe. Unfortunately, Richmond proved to be relentlessly residential - at least to the uninitiated. After Gosia took off, I spent over half an hour looking for ANY place to sit down. At one point I just plopped down on someone's front steps and gave into despair. Eventually I figured out that I had to get to a big street (luckily I had a map), and managed to find a cafe that would have me. The world seemed beautiful once again. The barista was really nice and complimented me on my Dr. Zoidberg t-shirt. And at one point, as I raised my eyes from my laptop to look outside, an African-American girl crossing the street gave me a big smile and waved at me. I was relieved to find I immediately smiled and waved back, despite being raised in a place where that NEVER happens. And then they played this song:



Things were good.

Eventually Gosia came back, very happy with her ride, and I managed to persuade her to go eat at a Korean BBQ restaurant that was just down the street. She wanted to go to something called the Stinking Rose that prides itself on only serving things that contain garlic - which is an admirable venture in its own right - but I promised myself I would try this legendary Korean grill food, and we even researched the best places in SF, so we knew one was nearby. We still weren't hungry after that ridiculous breakfast from 6 hours ago, but oh well.

Thank God I won. It was amazing. The place was pretty bare-bones - PCV on the floor, cafeteria tables, and charcoal smoke hanging in the air - but the food was incredible. I had short ribs marinated in... something, and Gosia actually ordered tripe with vegetables. (Yes, grilled tripe. And it was good.) We had to grill all the stuff ourselves, using a grill built into our table, and while I don't really find that sort of DIY stuff appealing, the food was so good that I didn't really mind. Aside from the actual stuff we ordered, we also got rice, a pot of spicy tofu soup (on the house), and a gazillion bowls of various side dishes. My favorite were some sort of dried anchovies with... something. Honestly, I've no idea what we ate, but it was divine.

And then we went back home. On foot. From the Westernmost district of San Francisco to one of its Easternmost ones. With me barely being able to walk. I think we passed through Japantown on our way - I vaguely recall seeing a rather cool-looking, very modern building with a huge red circle - but I mostly just remember the pain. Thankfully there was a pharmacy near our hotel, so I as able to buy some pain-relieving cream, blister patches and a bandage/support thing for my foot. American pharmacies are ridiculously well-stocked, and it's all self-service. Finger splints, wound dressing, something called GOODNIGHT BUNION... I swear, in a couple years they'll have limb-restoring gel and replacement eyeballs.

By the time we finally got back to our room, I didn't even have the strength to make bulletpoint notes for this recap. I just prayed the pain would go away, because on the next day we were supposed to go to Castro and Mission - i.e. the places I was most curious about. Spoiler alert: as I'm writing this, my feet still hurt.

Day Two: So Much Pretty

Yesterday we started out early to catch a free tour of Chinatown that Gosia found on the web. We arrived at a tiny park whose name eludes me now 10 minutes before time, but found only a shitload of Chinese senior citizens there. No young, hip and beautiful free tour guides in sight. Eventually a middle-aged Chinese lady holding a CHINATOWN TOUR sign arrived with a whole bunch of little kids in tow, and we fell in behind her. That's how we were treated to a brief history of Chinese immigration at the 2nd grade level. After that was done, the Chinese lady declared that I would become her assistant in wrangling the children - at which point one of the school teachers explained that me and Gosia were actually not part of the children's group. This was when we realized that it was actually a special tour for some private school - and were promptly kicked out. Oopsie.

And so, we made our own tour with the help of Lonely Planet. I'd say it ended up being pretty OK. San Francisco is absolutely beautiful. I imagine the hill-after-hill aspect might get tedious really quickly if you live here, but when you're just visiting the whole city changes into a sequence of  Places You Want to Live. Downtown is like New York convulsed into skyscraper canyons shrouded in fog. Simply beautiful. My favorite places are Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill - both pretty steep, and both looking very... pricy. Like the sort of places where you really want one of your friends to have a house or something, so you can visit, but don't have to actually pay for it.

Telegraph Hill is very green, with some buildings covered in flowering vines, and lots of various nooks and crannies. At the apex there's a tower that I took for a lighthouse (it's not, some eccentric lady donated it to the city to pretty it up. It worked). We didn't go inside, and instead plopped down on a nearby lawn, took in the sights, and ate our ginormous gourmet sandwiches from an Italian deli. 

(Side note about food: we're finding it very difficult to eat more than one meal per day. The portions are simply enormous. And the things we do eat are delicious.)

Russian Hill is more Scandinavian dark wood tiered houses (you know, like the ones you see in those glossy design magazines) and an air of record exec opulence. We got to the top after sundown, and were treated to an amazing vista of the bay and the downtown area glimmering with lights, with the Bay Bridge actually shimmering because of some atmospheric thing that I probably should know an explanation for. And atop that hill stood a 30-floor high-riser with floor-to-ceiling windows. I can't even begin to imagine what the view must be from there.

We also went to the waterfront again. Visited a museum filled with old coin-operated arcade games, watched a whole bunch of sea lions lounging next to Pier 39, and finally took a nap in a small park right by the water, with a splendid view of the Golden Gate Bridge. There was a mounted police lady texting someone on her phone, a bunch of twenty-somethings lounging about, and even some people swimming in the bay. It was perfect. And so sunny that I actually got my face and neck burned a bit.

After that bit of downtime we went into a really cool coffee shop nearby to do Work Things using free Internet. Nothing spectacular happened there, but I'm writing it down so it (hopefully) jogs my memory somewhere down the line, because I felt really happy there. The barista was very nice in a laid back sort of way, there was a very hot guy sitting right outside, and I was filled with sunshine.

On our way back (after Russian Hill, I got a bit achronological there for a moment) we decided to pop into a bar for a nightcap. And yes, the bar was great. Small-ish, nicely underlit, with a 30-something friendly bartender lady in a simple black t-shirt, and just beginning to fill up, so we had a nice little bay window table, and then moved to sit at the bar. I honestly don't know why I don't sit at the bar more often, it makes everything better. We had drinks, got very excited when The XX's Intro came on, as we both love it, and felt really good in each other's company (at least so I assume). It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. As stupid as it sounds after just 4 days, I can't imagine anything else topping it.

The Grand Opening

Ok, let's do this. I remember hating reconstructing stuff from notes later during the NYC/Washington trip, so I'll try to keep this more or less up to date.

We arrived in San Francisco yesterday, at 1 p.m., having spent over 15 hours in transit. The flight was pretty uneventful apart from Smelly Foot Gate. Before I go any deeper into that, I should point out that I was sitting a row behind Gosia, and so couldn't really hear any of the actual conversations, so I only have body language and her subsequent account to draw upon. Smelly Foot Gate began with Gosia taking off her shoes. This encouraged an Italian lady sitting next to her to take off hers as well - but unfortunately, there was some serious odour involved, so she quickly put them back on again. The odour, however, persisted. 10 minutes later a stewardess came and asked Gosia to put her shoes back on. Gosia started arguing that it wasn't her odour, and eventually the stewardess left. 20 minutes later a stately gentleman sitting in front of Gosia turned around and asked her to put her shoes back on. Gosia started arguing again. This time the ripples spread - more and more people started turning around and asking what was going on. Finally, Gosia relented and very resentfully put her shoes back on (she claims that in the meantime she actually went into the bathroom to smell her socks and shoes and make sure that her feet didn't smell). For my part, I was happy to be watching from the sidelines and not hearing what was actually being said.

The other slightly interesting thing about the flight was the flight map - as we were nearing our destination, I saw things like Klamath Falls and Redding pop up. Until then, these were purely Fallout names to me.

The journey to our hotel was pretty uneventful as well, unless you count lugging suitcases up a series of hills. Apparently San Francisco is more vertical than it is horizontal.

Our hotel is located on Bush Street in a district called Knob Hill, so there's that. The actual name is Nob Hill, but I refuse to acknowledge that, and you can't tell the difference in speech anyway, so I just pretend I'm saying Knob whenever I talk about it.

We miraculously avoided getting jetlagged - despite only having slept around 4 hours total over the past 48 hours, I wasn't sleepy at all when we landed, and convinced Gosia to go and see the ocean. We arrived around sundown, and... well, it was pretty. Obviously. Chasing the high, we went into one of the gazillion seafood restaurants clustered around Pier 39, and gorged on crab, shrimp and mussels (seafood - check). It as pretty awesome, even if the tip alone ended up being worth as much as a good meal + service in Warsaw.

On our way back, a very friendly- and somewhat homeless-looking older man stopped us and asked if we spoke English (he must have heard us speaking Polish, or something). I followed my first instinct and defensively said "barely". He said he's a comedian and that he'd like to tell us a joke - and if we liked it, he wouldn't mind if we gave him a buck or two. We got into a short conversation, which was a bit awkward because I forgot I supposedly barely spoke English at all. Finally, he told us an "atheist joke".

- Knock knock.

- Who's there?

- Nobody.

I liked it.

At one with the moment

We watched the Simon Amstell standup, and it was actually... well, it certainly was well-crafted. You could see how much work went into breaking it down into small segments that flowed into each other pretty seamlessly, and how aptly placed the callbacks to earlier bits were. A lot of it struck so close to home though, that I found myself drifting away from the humor towards some sort of internal scoreboard, checking off whether I was more, equally, or less fucked up in the currently discussed capacity. The whole thing's on the Internet by the way:

We're running, and everyone else I think is one with the moment, one with joy, one with the universe, and I'm there, as we're running, thinking 'Well, this will probably make a good memory...' Which is living in the future, discussing the past with someone who if they asked you 'Oh what did it feel like?' [you'd go] 'I don't know, I was thinking of what I'd say to you.'

That one gave me the longest pause, because it's pretty all-encompassing, and therefore related to all my other... peculiarities. I think I'm still a bit ahead of Amstell on that front. It's not a crippling mechanism - usually - but it felt very weird when I realized that I had had the exact same thought literally three hours before.

I was at my parents' house, and as I was about to leave, my mother asked if she could show me and dad something she'd been practicing. We sat down in her room, she put on a Russian folk song on YouTube, and sang the second voice to it. It was the first time I've ever heard her do anything like that. She was visibly nervous, and off key at times. At first I had no idea how to react. And then I heard this voice in my head: stay in this, take in as much as you can. When they're gone, you will want to remember it.

So I tried, vacillating between sitting in that room in Winter and listening to my mother sing, and some vague point in the future when this memory would need to be as vivid as I could make it. Unsure whether what I felt in the moment was a direct response to the now, or a bizarre reflection of this projected, inevitable loss.

Maybe I'm not ahead after all.

Custom-made

Had a fun night out. Met a cute fetus. Went urrrrr gurrrr blerrrr at him. Then learned he's straight and charmed the shit out of him. Like a motherfucking Ninja of the Fruitless Orchard.

I'm not even surprised. I just want my superpowers WHEN I ACTUALLY NEED THEM. For once.

Pauli tells me Simon Amstell did a whole standup set about just that. We're gonna watch it on Tuesday. Because misery loves company? Bullshit, everyone loves company.

Because I've no other plans. *drops mic*

Stories

I don't really have this one mapped out... we'll see how it goes.

A while ago I was shown a film called Weekend, which is a gay love story. I usually balk at calling things gay anything (why can't it just be a "love story" and all that crap), but in this case the qualifier is quite essential. More on that later.

Anyway, I thought the film was really good - especially the acting and the dialogue. Real people talking, and not talking. Meanings carried inbetween. I figured it was a cool new addition to my catalog of relationship studies.

A day went by, then two, and I realized that it didn't go away. A buzz in the back of my head, a lump in the pit of my stomach - it was still there. I got my own copy, re-watched a few scenes. Started cutting out clips, and flinging them at people. I spread the word. Finally I rested, satisfied.

Some time after, my mother asked me if I could get the movie for her. I had sent her a song that played over the end credits (it was very much her sort of music). She did some digging around on YouTube, found a couple of scenes, and wanted to see the whole thing. I figured why not, except the Polish subs were pretty horrible, so I decided to tweak the translation first. This of course meant that I had to see the whole thing again, which rekindled my urge to share it with someone.

Today I watched the whole thing with Ana, and here is where - at long last - the Thoughts come in. One of the characters in the movie is a self-proclaimed artist and semi-militant gay... activist, I guess? If you consider speechifying about the societal structure to be activism. It's even nicely played up for humor, when he delivers a drunken sermon on the inherent heterosexuality of narrative in popular culture to an increasingly confused middle-aged bar patron. The thing is, my first reaction was to roll my eyes at most of the stuff he said. And then roll them again once I realized that he also serves as a delivery system for the filmmaker's thoughts on the subject (it actually gets a bit meta at one point, with the guy musing on whether anyone will see his work, since it's just gay stuff - but the character is so well-written that I hadn't picked up on it at first).

I kept thinking that I long for the day when you don't need to have a character give the audience a crash course in Being Gay in Our Society, and highlight the suckage involved. Or preach on the importance of taking charge and making up "our own" - i.e. gay - stories. Once again: why do they have to be gay? Why can't they just be "stories"?

Well, the thing is... maybe they can't. Or maybe they shouldn't. It's been hours, and I'm still riding a wave of crushing melancholia. The thing punched right through me and pulled out a horrible, gnawing hunger right to the surface. I can recall only one other instance of me having this guttural a reaction to a film - and that was after seeing Angels in America.

I get emotional watching... my first instinct was to write "universal", but yes, the truth is "straight" stories. Stuff happens, I empathize, I appreciate the nuances, I revel in the dynamics. But I do not get fucking incapacitated. That stuff gets filtered and translated through my brain, I guess. Meanwhile, this movie bypassed all those checkpoints, and interfaced directly. And I doubt that's because it was just that good.

The sinking feeling will pass, I should have it locked and chained again in a day or two, but I guess I might need to rethink some of my kneejerk reactions towards ghettoization.

The One Where I Lose My Marbles, Apparently

Right now, I'm in the midst of a completely random Pink bender. Yesterday I randomly clicked on a YouTube interview with her (it was in "related videos" for a clip I'd watched), and that was that. I've never listened to Pink, I've never watched a single interview with her, nothing. So it's very possible that I'm experiencing a massive mental breakdown. Either that, or she is legitimately one of the most awesome showbiz people out there.

Anyway, the interview that started it all is here (the best part is around the 6:00 mark, but it's all good):

And here - around 5:00 - is a bit more background on the whole "throwing a knife at husband" story:

I've decided we should totally hang out.

Glaciers

Two days ago I saw this cute - in a slightly gangly, academic sort of way - guy dining alone at my regular lunch place, reading a book on church-state relations from the Middle Ages to the Enlightenment. I ogled him for a while (had to, really, to make out the title of the book), but I think it's fair to say that we peaked, contact-wise, when he glanced at me just in time to see a piece of cucumber fall out of my mouth.

Today I bumped into him again - this time with something Antiquity-related, though the font was too small for me to make out the specifics.

The overall set-up is pretty dismal, since we're both in our own separate bubbles, gobbling down food and reading our history books, but if I see him 50 more times, I'm totally casually dropping "So how about them crazy Prince-Bishops of Mainz, eh?" or some equally sizzling chat-up line.

In other news - I have a new passport, a new credit card, a new phone, and Esthero has a new album coming out. So let's drink to that.

Urbane

Went out last night to meet with Natalia. I was really looking forward to it, but there was some outside turbulence which tinted the overall feel a different shade. Natalia texted me that she was going to be quite a bit late, and I was already on my way, so I decided to make a pit stop at Filip's. I was clear from the start that I was only popping in for half an hour or so, and tried to be vague about my plans for the evening, but when asked point-blank, I told him who I was meeting. As soon as I did, I knew it wasn't a good idea. The room soured, though Szymon did his best to diffuse the situation. Either way, I bolted.

And then once I got to the club, I bumped into a guy who had been hitting on her and whom I thought she was avoiding. I decided I should probably let her know before ordering any drinks, in case we needed to relocate, but she said it wasn't an issue anymore. And after I got back to the bar, I found out that my reflexes were as sharp as ever in that I had actually already ordered a drink, and then promptly skipped out on the bewildered bartender to make clandestine phone calls, because I am smoothness incarnate.

The guy was amusing, but completely hammered, and kept popping by to share stories about his CRAFT (he's an actor), And then about an hour into our meeting, Filip called Natalia asking if they could come by. She replied in the diplomatic (and stilted) negative, and thus the whole thing became "an issue". All in all, too much drama for a late night catching up. And none of it mine.

And today - an hour-long breakfast at my local cafe, with Harold Nicolson's diaries.

August 13, 1941

[Dorothy Thompson, the American journalist] says that we must always remember that America is composed of many millions of people who left Europe because they hated it, and that there are many millions of Italians and Germans whose hearts go out to their mother countries. Although these emotions pull America apart, they feel at the same time a strong longing to remain together. What we don't filly understand in this country is the actual dread of the American soul at being split. There is always the fear that they will cease to be a nation.

I teared up a bunch of times. I still find it hilarious that nothing makes me bawl harder than grand geopolitical narratives.

And once again, I regret I've stopped writing things down. Maybe the solution is a private diary?

No moleste

This has been making me laugh for 4 days now:

Her delivery on the actual phrases is flawless. Gotta find me some more of her.

Blink and you'll miss it

I've been meaning to write that life is really good, that I'm content and mellow, perhaps even - dare I say - happy, and have been for quite some time now, but I kept putting it off (partially for fear of seeming bipolar, given the last entry), until finally it became no longer 100% accurate.

Nothing's changed in the land of real, I'm still content etc., but I got bells and whistles going off and upsetting my general sense of zen. As usual, there's nothing I can do about it, but unlike before - I'm not in the least pleased with this development, and wish it never occurred in the first place.

Looking forward to this non-starter fading away, and me getting back to enjoying all the little things.

Speaking of bipolar, I don't think I'll ever find a more accurate depiction of my... me. Sans that final imploration, that is, which mars the song a little bit for me. A very little bit though.

Fragile states

I'm exhausted, and there's still 3 weeks of work left, followed by ultra-intense work during the festival itself. I'm coping, but it's not terribly fun.

Found this picture on the Internet today:

Something about that critter's face does a number on me. I know it's supposed to be smiling, but all I'm getting is sad, scared, lost, and alone.

Ginger Beer

I usually manage to write something here when I'm traveling, but this time there didn't seem to be any social downtime. Plus I didn't bring my laptop.

Now things are winding down, and I have arrived at the "closing of doors" state of mind. I like it here. It's kind of nostalgia meets smell the roses - people appear warm and lovable, the couch is extra comfy, and even the still unopened plastic bottle of Ginger Beer on the counter seems like good memory snapshot material.

No epiphanies though, just swirling mood magma.